


TA: ju2t fuck me up

by tatterdemalionAmberite (amberite), titianArchivist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Bondage, Come Inflation, Crying, F/M, Femdom, Gillplay, Helmsman, Messy, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Psionics, Size Difference, Tentabulges, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberite/pseuds/tatterdemalionAmberite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/titianArchivist/pseuds/titianArchivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I ain't opposed to getting my wetware wet," she says. You think you could almost make out the words just from the movements of her lips against your ear, and that gets all down your spine even as part of you writhes in annoyance at a seadweller without any modifications beyond the cosmetic using the word <em>wetware</em>. Fuck it, it's still hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TA: ju2t fuck me up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mulattafury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulattafury/gifts).



> Loved all your prompts (and considered doing more than one) but only had time for this one! Roxy is in Sollux's rails-with-pails quadrant here, I think. I wanted to show her in his life even if Meenah/Sollux is the focus of the story because OTPs are important. 
> 
> One working title for this thing was "some kinda liberquarium hacker hakeven," which is basically the answer to the question of "why is Sollux visiting Meenah's moon with Roxy in mumble mumble AU where all the Homestuck characters wind up being from the same world but as their original species gosh hey look at the time, also I heard you like spinal jacks?"

You're reasonably sure that this place is _actually_ a half-demolished datacenter, not a fake in a new building with the shells of old racks lugged in from somewhere like the would-be hacker hangouts back planetside. Like, there are holes in the roof that you can see cave wall through, loops of disemboweled fiber optics dangling through the gashes and glittering in the strobe lights – fiber optics and ancient copper cables and tufts of insulation and _pearls_ , and chains of gold, and gems bigger than your head stuck at random into wingbeast's-nests of wire, because apparently the rumors about the Pink Moon are completely true. You're going to owe Roxy so many drinks after you're done with this that you can already taste the hangover.

You plunge into the crowd and start elbowing your way to the back of the room, flashing the capped ports on the backs of your hands and your temporary high-security clearance at trolls and aliens who wave drinks at you and shout excited questions about the situation planetside. This place is bigger than it looks, but you manage to get to Roxy and her contact before they can disappear into some obscure afterparty and leave you stuck here explaining your port setup to drunk noobs all night.

"You're definitely going to _like_ the seadweller girl who owns this place," Roxy said last night while you were both packing bags for this get-together, with the kind of eyebrow-waggle that made you toss a pillow at her - and she was right. Meenah Peixes is twice your size and exactly your type, and you've been trying to look less poleaxed by this than you actually are, but there's no avoiding Roxy's smug smirk. 

And now you're in an interface chair in a private block, oontz-oontz music from the party arriving as muffled occasional bass vibrations as Roxy flips through a zine and watches you work out of the corner of her eye. 

Well, Roxy nominally came to watch you work, but actually she came to watch you get knocked flat. 

In retrospect, you probably shouldn't have been quite so sure of yourself while plugging in to stress-test Meenah's security system ("Think you can do me a favor and trawl for missing scales?" she'd said, grinning, earlier) or even half believed the implication that she wasn't all that good with technology, seadweller or no. 

Your ~ATH kicking is swift and thunderous. You're feeling about the way you did after that one time you accidentally licked mind honey off your fingers, ate a double dose of soporific tablets to try to cancel it out and spent the next twelve hours twitching through involuntary eye flares and not sleeping whatsoever in your sopor pod: somewhere during the sleep paralysis phase, aware but thoughts racing, muscles not responding. 

"Whale, I guess the last bunch of hake-ers who had a pike at this improved the response times!" Meenah's saying. Or something like that. It's taking a moment for your head to clear.

When Meenah kneels by you, where you're half slumped at the interface module with your shoulder ports radiating heat from the overload of traffic that just inundated your nervous system, it's something that would be a casual pose if she weren't so tall but your face is practically between her legs, and she's wearing these leggings that make it impossible to ignore the movement of her bulge under the surface of the stretchy fabric. "Shell I do anyfin to make you _more comfortable?_ "

The familiar sound of Roxy cracking up echoes across the room. "Hacker boy got _pwned_ ," she says. "'Oh hey Captor can you test this for me', works every time -" 

You know your cardiovascular system is working normally because of how hot your face is getting. 

"Whale?" Meenah asks. "Am I floating around or swimming away?" You're breathing heavily at least as much because you've underestimated her as because of the movements of her bulge inches from your face. Roxy knows that, too. It's at least half because of her gigglefits that the less sex-stunned part of your thinkpan grades this situation as _kind of dangerous, but not in a bad way_. She's a good judge of character. 

"Lemme at it again," you slur, thick-lipped as if you've been punched in the mouth and possibly also had the tips of your tongue stapled together. It isn't an easy matter to leer when you're concentrating on not drooling, but you think you manage it by sheer dint of having twice the usual amount of fang to display.

Meenah smirks at you. "Buoy, I don't think you've got the juice to pike your face in there again," she says - and you've got to admit she has a point, because she's picked up your face in one hand, and you can't seem to do very much about it. "- plus I wanna see how long this takes to wear off, anyway." Her claws, oh, _fuck_ , your sense of touch isn't knocked out but it's gone weird, tingles shooting through your skin and turning into synaesthetic bursts of light behind your eyes, and her claws under your cheek are making pinpoint firework explosions through cutaway slices of at least three senses, and you're glad the noise you make comes out as a muffled 'muh' instead of the jumping-out-of-your-skin squeal that would normally provoke. "Clam down, squiddo," she says, "I'll let you get schooled again when you've perked back up."

Your first impulse is to lean into the gold-lacquered pinpricks of _weird_ on your cheek, but you aren't quite to the point of following along easily yet and so the contrary, equally stupid urge to turn your head and take a snap at her fingers wins out. Your longest fangs clamp down on hard plating at the joints and pain spikes up through the roots of your teeth and the hinge of your jaw and you have neither the ability nor the inclination at the moment to draw blood – you probably aren't impressing anyone. _Make me_ prints to the _Seacurity Protocol Deeployed_ screen that you're still rigged to, and you do something with your tongue and a trapped clawtip that's supposed to be cleverly obscene but just comes out clumsily so.

"...ya didn't tell me he _nibbles_ ," Meenah says to Roxy, who answers, "Hey! I didn't know!" (which is a _lie_ , okay, you just don't bite Roxy very much because she has thin human skin and you're in diamonds with her, even if you both play fast and loose with the definition) and you can feel the seatroll's low chuckle almost more than you hear it, vibrating from her midsection; she's leaning over to loom more effectively. "You liking this, guppy?" Meenah asks you in a way that'd be casual if she wasn't tugging on your earlobe to speak directly into your ear. It _must_ be starting to wear off, because this time you have just enough muscle tone to actually shiver when her breath brushes over the cluster of oversensitive nerve endings in there. 

You reluctantly release the fingers for a moment to snarl, "Damn right I do," still barely intelligible with muscle weakness, in answer to both questions. You send the rest to the console, _2o do you ju2t have a thiing for the 2mell of friied data port, or do you actually want two get 2ome conductive gel on your claw2?_

It takes Meenah a moment to see it, and she laughs that throaty giggle again. "I ain't opposed to getting my wetware wet," she says. You think you could almost make out the words just from the movements of her lips against your ear, and that gets all down your spine even as part of you writhes in annoyance at a fish princess-in-exile without any modifications beyond the cosmetic using the word _wetware_. Fuck it, it's still hot.

Something tilted and fuzzy and familiar keeps happening in the back of your head every time you reach for your psi, like a corrupting network connection or the ominous creeping tingle of an oncoming migraine, but you still startle yourself when you reach out to shock the obnoxiously fuchsia flared filaments of gills beneath Meenah's jawline and instead get a flurry of weakly stinging sparks that swarm around your eyes and dissipate within seconds for your trouble.

"...sweet," Meenah says cheerfully. "I wondered how whale that was gonna work." She shifts angle and walks her lavishly painted claws up your spine, digging in a little over the skin between connection points as she openly admires your hardware. "Custom work?" Every point where a clawtip touches your skin is giving off those impossibly intense, explosive waves of sensation, and when your back ripples under her hands the cables tug, reminding you that you're still plugged in, still theoretically capable of fucking around with her systems but also still physically vulnerable. 

"Y-yeah," you say stupidly, breathless. With your mushed-up perceptions those spots near the boundary of skin and not-skin seem wired even more directly to the root of your bulge than usual, ghosts of immaculately honed clawtips felt impossibly from within, and you bluster out, "I – blew out all the off the shelf stuff – I had to –" covering for yourself badly as your bulge thrashes and batters at the clenched inside of your sheath. It _hurts_ , fuck, this happens sometimes, and the looks people give you when they see your double bulge are worth it, but the parts don't fit together right when you unsheathe too fast, the base of your swelling bulge pinching and crowding against your double set of shame globes. 

You instinctually pull at psionics to hold yourself back by force and this time the shock goes straight to the base of your skull, a ball of power that barely forms before it collapses – and your bulge lunges out all at once and grabs a fistful of your plugsuit and you're just going to pretend that shameless grating-slurred chittering noise didn't come from you. 

It's lost on you what of that was visible, but Meenah is staring at you, her jaw hanging a little open. "Dam, buoy, you're sensitive," she says, her voice a little breathier than it was. You realize your cheeks are wet and yellow tears are soaking into your plugsuit; your lacrymation reflex must have triggered from the pressure on your shame globes, as if she'd pailed in you (you want her to pail in you, holy fuck -) "And you like these," she says, only fractionally a question, and in an abrupt motion she's suddenly running her claws _over_ your bulge, lightly and through fabric but close enough to feel how dangerous they are. 

Needle-sharp seadweller claws and neat rows of glimmering sawtooth shark-fangs, yeah, you like those things. Your bulges strain inside the fabric and roll and coil themselves against her claws and you make a squeaky trilling sob through the wetness stinging at the back of your throat – and in the back of your head the adaptive anti-encryption layer on your custom port setup reports that it's completed its adjustments. You're ticking down the seconds until you're ready to try Meenah's security again, now. "You haven't – seen half of it yet," you snarl, as much of a challenge as you can make it.

Meenah elects to take this as a single entendre. "I shore haven't," she says, not taking her eyes or her fingers off your desperately twitching bulge, staring at your skintight suit with her lips parted like she's deciding how best to peel open something tasty. 

"... OK, you two are starting to look _real_ busy," Roxy says. 

"Yeah, that's about right," you gasp out. You think of how nice it would be for them both to work you over, but you're pretty sure this is too caliginous for Roxy to want to join in. 

She seems to be getting that vibe too. "Don't fuck him up _too_ bad," she says to Meenah, winks outrageously and blows her a kiss, then you, mwah, mwah, her brown hand gesturing dramatically through the air. "I'm outies." The portal to the interface block whooshes shut.

Meenah's hands go for the attachment points that undo your clothes - that she found them on the first try is one more thing she's done that impresses you, as it's nowhere near obvious - and the nano-seal closure parts under her hand, invisible inseams opening up until everything between your sheath and your waste chute is exposed and a good portion of your inner thighs. 

She makes a little _mmmm_ noise, almost subvocal, and her fins flutter and tug her gills into a reactive flare, like she's thirsty in more ways than the metaphorical. And then she brings her claws up against your skin - but the backs of them, so that they're smooth as pebbles but would draw blood if the angle changed, it's so hard to hold still, they're moving over the sides of your sheath and over the outer lips of your nook ticklishly sensitive and your bulge doesn't even have the tight fabric to coil against. Your shame globes throb gut-kick hard and your shoulders wrench at their anchor points with the effort of keeping your legs from shaking. Even the surfaces of her claws are eerily, almost painfully cold, like freeze-sterilized connector pins brushing up against the overheated creases of your nook (...not that you would have any reason to know what _that_ feels like.) A muscle at the base of your neck has already started in on stinging twinges that yank at your spine, and it's only going to get worse, your port setup isn't exactly optimized for comfortable range of motion – You'll have to use your weakened psionics for almost everything, and this time only a feeble static shock crawls between your horns when you reach for those temptingly exposed gill filaments again.

Or maybe something barely, invisibly reached its target, because she carelessly lifts one hand away from you and rubs at the slit you were trying to reach, like going after a faint tickle or itch there; then she pulls her hands away entirely and starts getting less dressed, pulling open a closure in the smooth taut fabric between her legs and then you're seeing a soft pulsating light through her translucent tights, and it's - you're seeing why she barely raised an eyebrow at your double bulge, hers is... _more_ than that, twitching and coiling and she tugs the tights down and starts stroking herself, inches from your face, her fingers making weird undulations to let the tips curl around them, a private, practiced motion, and she groans, a humming satisfied noise. You're counting three, four, at least, long and narrow and lithe and the thick-based central tendril still swelling and glowing under the stretchy garment, as she tugs to let it out. 

Even her scent is almost completely unlike anything you associate with troll or human bodies, strange and salt and cold, and a shiver runs from the base of your spine to the tips of your horns, involuntary and obvious. You wonder, ridiculously, if you'll be able to see the glow through the skin of your stomach when you've taken that thing all the way in – and you decided more or less the moment you locked eyes with the towering seadweller that you _will_ or pass out trying. You lick your lips, absolutely shameless and hopefully distracting; if she hasn't noticed the two slender points of your tongue pierced with the gutted shells of tiny single-nerve ports yet, then she will now – and you're drawing on power that you could be building toward another assault on her security, but it's a matter of pride at this point and you go for her gills a third time, a thin, winding thread of light extending into a shower of tiny sparks that catch in the folds and filaments like sand.

The flaps squeeze down and her breath catches and clicks hard in her throat, almost a squeak, and you're suddenly more intimately aware that it's a part of her respiratory apparatus you're toying with, or trying to; that she's reacting the way you'd react with a hand pressed softly around your neck, not enough to obstruct your windpipe but enough to feel it, even if she's not in water right now - "Got some fight in you, guppy," she says, and slicks her hand over the base of her bulge, her eyelids dropping in pleasure. Then she's straddling you, not _quite_ close enough for any more than the outermost feathery tendrils of her bulge to tickle your thighs. She leans closer, dangling braids over your face, bites at the base of a horn and exhales a soft thrumming noise that sounds oddly flat without the acoustic properties of water to carry it. 

Meenah's fangs graze your horn membrane and it's almost alarming how much it _doesn't_ hurt, cleanly piercing-sharp, and a bead of blood trickles hot down your temple and you want to wipe it away, hell, you want to put your hands on the weird rippling texture of her bulge but all you can do is flex your claws and strain against the ports on your wrists. "I'd rather have something else in me," you grin, and that wasn't particularly clever but you're already splitting your attention, running a ripple of power around the tip of her central bulge where her hand hasn't been touching just to see what happens and tugging at her hips with substantially less finesse and pooling energy and cognition, readying yourself to flow into her systems, easily this time – running through the levels of protections you'll have to disarm in your mind, this time you'll check more thoroughly for processes set to cue off after you make it through the general firewall - you're in two places at once, mentally, which is just the way you like it, as she moans and pushes her knees between yours and the outer tendrils of her bulge tease at you - 

Fuck, she has incredible muscle control, fronds brushing up and down your nook lips until you want to scream, and then just the tip of one pushing in - 

You watch the smears of fuchsia dripping from your nook and thighs as if from halfway outside of your body, so involved in the final, rushed, processing-intensive compiling of experimental code to obfuscate your presence in the network that even the sensation from your nook seems to come on a delay, ticklish-soft and alarmingly cold. You're delegating approximately none of your cognitive capacity to controlling yourself anymore; your bulges are lashing uselessly against your stomach and you mumble _fuck, please, more already_ before you can have second thoughts about begging. 

Meenah makes a trilling growl that just goes on and on and on as her braids spill down over your face and she pushes the central stalk of her bulge into you, the ends of the outer tendrils prying like levers. 

Even as sloppy-wet as you are it's slow, your nook easing open as she goes deeper and the glow waxing and waning with her slow pulse and it's - the texture of her central bulge is different than anything you've felt before, like there's a slight scale to it, not rough enough to harm you but when she tugs her hips back to angle in better there's a kind of textural stickiness, surface gripping surface, and she's so _thick_ and you think she's going to hit your slurry bladder any moment just halfway in and slowly undulating, still growling or groaning so deep in her chest that her rumble spheres are actually rumbling from it - you can feel every ridge and dimple of her bulge sliding over all four of your shame globes as she settles into place, and the outer bulge tendrils are fanned out like a flower now, like a hand cupping the area around your nook and she pulls your knees up and shudders and her whole body arches hard and she locks so tight into your slurry sphincter you don't know how you'd even try to disengage now. Fuck, mostly having a bulge up you means it stimulates the shame globes on movement but with her bulge they're just squeezed continuously, tears dripping from the corners of your eyes. 

You're going to lose hold of it all, the surfeit of data crowded into your short-term memory and energy pent up ready to power an enormous binge of processing, all about to shatter into chaos (more like clinging to the edge of orgasm than like programming by hand, bombarded with information from within and sensation from _everywhere_ , almost –) fuck, you're going to lose the thread if you don't do this now – you sink your fangs into your lip jagged-bright against a whine of concentrated relief and send out thousands of pings all at once, the packets intended for probable weak points and a barrage of pseudorandom decoys, and the _access denied_ messages hit you within milliseconds but not as many as the threads of code you sent –

It hurts worse this time, a phantom shockwave blow from inside your skull that almost overwhelms the triumphal flash of _something_ that you saw and hastily, half-encoded wrote to memory – your body goes rigid, joints locked-aching, and then slumps against the ports, muscle control knocked dead. The weird echoing itch of nerve overload crawls from your ports to your hands, even to the inside of your nook, so much like the twinges of wanting to be filled that you're making mush-mouthed wanting noises even though you're already stretched taut. 

"You shore like it rough," Meenah says, "stupid sexy dumb-bass," her voice strained, the tense quivering of her muscles in stark contrast to your near-total limpness, and you miss the cue that would tell when she goes from anticipation to happening, because for a moment she's totally silent, as your slurry sac feels the first spurt of her genetic material starting to fill you up - a splatter against an inner wall then a rhythmic, pulsing flow, nowhere near the stretch that will eventually squeeze your own shame globes empty, yet - and then breathes in a deep shuddery gasp that makes her gills twitch like she can't quite drink in enough air, and she moans, her slurry still pouring into you slow and cold. Your bulge is curling and swelling in anticipation - and then she grabs it and there's a _pinch_ , a twinge of pain that's almost more surprise, and there's something around the base of it, clamped like a vise, immobile. 

It takes a couple of incoherent outraged-aroused noises to remember that your voice is as out of commission as the rest of you. The connection with Meenah's system still isn't completely terminated – it's pure arrogance not to program your rig to hard-cut power to ports that are initiating attacks; it makes you seethe – and you output to console _fuck you, ii liike a challenge_ – not even denying that this _is_ one, and you think you know what the thing on your bulge is, even though the pinch is radiating through your core as if she's grabbed hold of your shame globes or the base of your spine, more intense the longer you're pinned unable to writhe away from it, but you refuse to try to slow her down or make this easier on yourself. _do your wor2t._

She just groans and releases more slurry into you, eyes fluttering closed and claws digging into your hips - your gene-sphincter is stretched so tight around her bulge that it stings and now you're beginning to feel that satisfying fullness in your gene bladder, your abdomen beginning to round out visibly, but you don't think she's anywhere near done, and of course being twice your size she's going to produce a proportionate amount of material - and you're half expecting you'll lose your grip and she'll slip out, but it hasn't happened, and another stream of material fills you deeper and your shame globes throb, compressed nearly to the point of release, feeling so close to pailing that you almost forget you're held back at the root of your bulge - 

Your shame globes pulse around the fluid trapped inside, and you can't even brace against the first, balked attempt to push slurry through a conduit that just isn't _there_ , a surge of frantic pressure that ebbs back into a less urgent, steady thrum without yielding any relief; and of course you were conscious before of your own material compressed and coal-hot in your globes against the heavy cold of Meenah's slurry pumping you full but now the contrast is pounding-loud, almost drowning out the ringing in your nerves from your overloaded ports; your growl of frustration comes out damp and muffled and your eyes are stinging again, cheeks wet. 

Meenah licks salt off your cheek and her fangs nick your ear, cool breath flowing against the cut with her dazed panting. You don't know when she's going to release you, _if_ she's going to release you or just leave you with globes so swollen you could barely walk; you have to slow and deepen your breathing to adjust to the stretched feeling inside, still growing, liquid pressure still building, and it seems like every rush of fluid from her bulge is more voluminous than the last, and she must feel the weight of fullness in you pushing back because the locked-in tip of her bulge flicks and curls frantically and the whole center column of her body goes quivering-rigid against yours, a desperate wordless shout and an effortful spasm, the beginning of the end - 

And all the while your thinkpan keeps gnawing at itself over the wall of code you've been throwing yourself against, and it only makes the frustration worse; you were so close that you could feel the immensity of information almost within reach, and the tears flow faster just from the stubborn effort to keep thinking about that second encryption tier, even if you're just processing in circles – interrupted by twitchy stochastic spasms from your shame globes, and the muddle of confused cut-off sensation from your bulge must have somehow thrown the two sets out of sync with each other because the almost-releases are hitting you in weird rippling waves of wrenching jolts that each begin before the last one ended. 

You don't even care anymore whether she lets your bulge retract so you can pail properly or just loosens the clamp so you can spray your material all over the room like a total dweeb, by the time you feel her fingers on your bulge it's a mess of thrashing and quivering, trying harder and harder to begin a process that's physically impossible right now - and she's still filling you with her material, but slower now, breathing more quietly, barely noticeable bursts of pressure inside as she fiddles with the catch on the device and tugs it loose - no, all the way off. 

Your bulge writhes in a surging stinging arc and you're wailing rough-throated before the next pulse even hits, so loud that you're sure the whole party outside the soundproofed walls can hear you when it does. Slurry splatters all over your thighs before your tendrils manage to pull back – and another cramped awkwardly half-retracted spurt that drips all over the once-sterile interface room floor, so much fluid at once that you aren't sure you'll be able to retract all the way against the flow – until a final cramp-like wrenching, dizzying pull from inside, as if for a moment you're hollow between your hips instead of swollen overfull. 

Your sheath closes around your bulgetips, there's a pressure change inside, and your seedflap slams open as if the inside of your body is gasping for this and the stretch of it all is beyond believing, your shame globes squeezing steadily now, and you have to hope your howling amounts to begging for a pail in some language Meenah understands – and you realize when she grins sharklike that she has other plans. She twists the ports down your spine loose with a quick practiced motion, claws brushing cold at your back, and hoists you up with your legs around her waist to keep you plugged with her bulge, even though it's starting to soften and the massive pressure of liquid inside you is beginning to leak around it, muscle control still not returned; doesn't move you far enough to have to detach everything, just enough to lift you up in the air and drop your party clothes into the interface chair beneath you before she begins to slide out of you - 

If Meenah wants you to struggle and beg and hold back then she is significantly underestimating the damage from two consecutive encounters with her countermeasures. Even if your nook wasn't stretched bruised-sore, you could barely access the muscles holding your combined slurry back enough to flutter them weakly against the slippery dripping flow loosening your hold around her bulge. Fuck it, you'll go back into the party wearing your plugsuit and looking like you've just been run over by a deorbiting space station; you don't care as long as letting go feels like this, a dull thrumming of slow-motion relief isolated to your core at first that ripples out into a roaring in your ears and ports and spine, as if pressure is lifting from all over, giddily light and empty and sparking in your fingertips – this could be taking years for all your strung-out senses can tell, and at least you get your shit together enough somewhere around halfway through to manage a solid bruising bite to one of Meenah's triumphantly flared ear fins before you're so drained from wave after wave of letting go that you slump tonelessly with your chin on her massive muscled shoulder, too exhausted to do much more than let the last interminable trickle of mixed slurry out onto your ruined clothes. 

You didn't manage to get much, and you wouldn't have remembered even what you got if not for one of your implants, but what you did get is a password for least one layer of firewall. You're sending that in right now, your ports the only part of you functioning at levels beyond jellylike twitching.

It takes no more than a distracted half-minute to get what you wanted from the 'net as Meenah looks down at the genetic material all over her belly and your thighs and the interface chair, and laughs, exhilarated and winded. The internal network locks you out of the large screen on the wall, but you still have the terminal you've been using. Only now you can pull up whatever you like on it.

The video launches. 

_We're no strangers to hate,_ _You bend the rules, and so do I..._

"Okay but," Meenah says, tired and breathy, "in _some_ outlaw micronations playing In Which Troll Rick Astley Declares his Devotion to his Kismesfish is legally a proposal. Or provocation to krill ya. But fuck that, I do what I like."

**Author's Note:**

>  _fin!_ 38D


End file.
